Kneel Under Authority
by BrokenKestral
Summary: Peter discovers the strength of being sworn to Aslan's service when he has to rescue his siblings.
1. Prologue

A/N: I know, I know, I'm already writing a story. But that's a multi-chapter story and I'm just on the Lone Islands. I have a couple months left to go on it. And this one promises to be about three chapters, and it won't go away, and (to quote Loki) I do want I want.

Well, not really. I try to do what I _should _do, but there's nothing that says I _should_ wait till _Home_ is finished to write one-shots, right? As long as I keep updating _Home_ at least once a week?

On to the real author's note. One, writing Peter's perspective always makes me nervous, so no promises on the quality of this story. But I promise to try my best and keep him as in character as I can. Two, it's also my first time writing something more angst-filled. So...try to be gentle? Or better yet, don't be gentle and give me constructive criticism; tell me what didn't work and why, or even just what didn't work and I'll try to figure out why.

You might start by pointing out that very long author's notes aren't the best way to begin a story, right?

Disclaimer: I would never claim even half of Lewis's talent. We're just both kneeling before the same King, telling His stories with what skill He has given us.

OOOOO

**Prologue: Given A Sword**

"Those who truly command know they serve someone higher than themselves."

Father had a book on knights. When I was very young, before Edmund was born and Susan was trying to walk with a lot less grace than Aslan gives her now, I saw a picture in it. A man in grey armor in front of a grey background, a white shield with a red cross held firmly in one hand. It looked taller than he was. Because he was doing something funny. He had his sword in hand, one knee pressed to the ground, his head bent down. I took it to Father and asked what the man was doing. He told me the man was kneeling.

"Why?"

"In service," Father said. I looked back on the picture, confused by a word. Serving was what people did when they had uniforms, and sometimes guns, and were not allowed to leave without someone telling them. People said they were in the service. But they didn't look like this man. Father noticed my confusion. "He kneels because he knows there is someone or something, like a law or a captain, above him who can tell him what to do, and he is ready to listen and obey, to put himself completely under that command." Oh. I liked that idea. I wanted to try it.

I could walk better than Susan, but it took my little toddler body days to learn to kneel. I kept falling over. Father, when he found me trying, threw his head back and laughed, then made me my own little shield to lean on, and that made it easier. Mother painted it with a red cross and, at my request, a fierce lion. It was before the war, when metal wasn't so rare. I loved it. He was going to make me a sword, but then Edmund was born and we were poorer, and I found two sticks of very different sizes and he used a worn-out leather strap to bind the small one across the large one, making a hilt. I played with them for hours. It made it easier on Mother, probably, having the other kids amusing themselves. I liked the weapons enough I soon forgot about the kneeling part. Until I learned that weapons should be wielded only by those sworn to the service of something good. Otherwise, there are unjust wars. But that was a lesson I learned later.

OOOOO

First was Narnia. There Father Christmas, big and glad and solemn, found three of us on our way to Aslan's court, and there he handed me a sword of metal, sharp, with a golden hilt. With it was a silver shield with a rampant lion, the color of ripe strawberries the moment they're picked (1). He told me they were tools, not toys; and something drew my heart to the lion. I carried them but did not use them, not till I first found the One who could command them. I brought these tools to Aslan.

And, on meeting him, I drew them, walked towards Him, saluted Him and told Him we'd come. And He named me, He knew me, and in that moment, though I said nothing, I knew I was sworn to His side and His service, by heart if not by word. And shortly after, my sword still drawn, I used it as His command to save my sister and slay the wolf who tormented her.

Then, my courage proved (though I would have said I felt none of it, just sick), my sister was safe. And I learned the first lesson of the sword, that it is not glorious to use it, but ugly. But it must be done, there's nothing for it, and I am often the one to do it. And then _my sister was safe_. And I was shaking and white-faced, but we won, and Aslan came. I had forgotten to clean my tool, and at his bidding I did so. Then, at His word, I knelt, and received from that position of humility a knighthood, and a silent promise to always fight under Aslan's authority. I had sworn my service to Someone good.

OOOOO

Edmund, too, Aslan saved, and Edmund too learned to wield a sword. He proved his courage fighting the White Witch herself, and Aslan knighted him, and he rose bearing the same sworn service as I. (Even if we went about it different ways.) We knelt again, the four of us, to receive our crowns. Soon after is when this story begins.

OOOOO

Aslan left, as was His right, and we puzzled our way through ruling and fighting in His name. First, of course, we had the remnants of an evil army to destroy. There was plenty of use for my sword, in battle and in training. Perhaps a year into our reign, however, attack became defense. Because there was one of the White Witch's minions, a former general who had been sent to Archenland to prepare for invasion, who returned. His sword was sworn to destroy everything Aslan loved.

And he sent several of his soldiers near Cair Paravel and took two of my siblings.

OOOOO

() Paraphrased from _The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe_ p. 104

Response to Guest on "Am I loved?", if you read this: I am so glad that story was good. Thank you for reviewing!


	2. 1 The Chase

**Chapter One: The Chase**

Disclaimer: Adventure, siblings, protectiveness, and life in general isn't mine, so Narnia certainly isn't. On to the chase!

Peter was leaving the throne room when he heard something. He turned his head to listen better. He'd been heading to the kitchen and grab a snack before riding out to join Lucy and Edmund for an afternoon visit to the nearby river-town. But this sound - hoofbeats, fast, on stone. At least two sets. Coming towards Cair Paravel.

It could be a training exercise (Groundhoof loved staging those), but this sounded different. Panicked, the sound strong from how hard the hooves were hitting. And too fast. He turned and headed for the courtyard.

A roan centaur, one of Edmund's, young, beardless, arms folded across his chest, gasping; the reins to Edmund's horse were in one of his hands.

Edmund's saddle was empty. And dark with stains.

Peter registered this in a moment, running down the stairs, hand reaching for the sword that wasn't at his waist. He cut through the Blair and Hedger, the pair of badgers on sentry duty, and the group of talking rabbits who'd been in the courtyard, and the cheetah who'd leaped from the second floor. He put his hand on the centaur's arm, grounding him, and made himself wait till the centaur looked up.

"What happened?" He tried to keep his voice calm. "Where is Edmund? Lucy?"

"Remnants of the army—a whole battalion—we couldn't—there were too many! King Edmund fell, I couldn't reach him, _I tried, your Majesty, I tried, I did, my fingers grazed his arm but they slipped off_, _they took them both, I left for help, Queen Lucy wasn't sitting up,_" Peter tightened his grip, just a little, and the centaur broke off. He relaxed his fingers with effort. He needed _not_ to picture what had happened. What might be happening now.

"Enough." Peter looked at the cheetah, Poth, and said, "My horse and Groundhoof's unit, _now_." Poth was off in a moment and Peter took a breath; he needed to finish this before he went to go get his siblings. He looked to Blair and said, "My sword," he'd need it, then to Hedger and said "Back to the gateway, sound the alarm, we defend Cair Paravel in case they're coming here," though that wasn't likely if they'd taken two of the four and run away.

Two. Lucy and Edmund. Oh, Aslan, keep them safe.

The horn - Cair Paravel's horn - sounded one deep, long, throbbing sound, then two more, rising. Peter's hand was still on the centaur's arm, and he released him. "Where?" he asked. He needed that, just that. A place to start. To find them.

"Near the Flowering Glen, your Majesty, by the river." The centaur looked down, into his eyes. The sorrow there nearly made Peter's self-control fall. "Queen Lucy wanted to see it." Peter nodded, tearing his eyes away, to the door of the stable where his horse was coming out. He ran to it and swung himself up; hooves clopped and the centaur was beside him again. "Let me come," he asked quietly. Determinedly. "Let me help, by Aslan's might, to bring them back."

Peter looked at him for a moment, trying to set aside the brother and be the king, the captain, to measure his determination and see if it was enough not to slow them down; to give a soldier a chance to fight for what he'd lost.

What _could_ be won back. Peter had to believe that. He nodded to the centaur, whose breathing had steadied and who was upright with the customary grace of his kind. "What's your name?"

"Thunderstorm, your Majesty. King Edmund took me in his guard when he found I'd tried to join the army too young." Peter's mouth twitched. Of course Edmund did. He had an eye for troublemakers.

Why was Groundhoof taking so _long?_ His horse (not a talking horse, of course 1) was twitching under Peter's legs, and his heartbeat was pounding the demand to leave, to be at the clearing, to be _doing something_.

He hated that kings should remain calm. But Aslan had made him king, and a king he would be. Even now.

There, hooves; Groundhoof and his cohorts coming; dogs, centaurs, even a few stags, guards who could run fast and long. Peter released the tight reins without waiting for them to full reach him, knowing they'd catch up. Thunderstorm must have been watching him, and patched his horse pace for pace, grabbing the reins once to lead the High King to a shortcut to the clearing. Peter never let up the pace till they arrived, dismounting an instant after reining the horse in.

There were twelve bodies in the clearing, two of Lucy's guard Dogs and Edmund's guard Panther. The other nine were wolves, a minotaur, and a few of the other remnants of the Witch's army.

And there was a trail leading away from Cair Paravel, a trial of quickly moving hooves that dug into the earth. Moving south (2).

Groundhoof's group caught up; the dogs who'd come ran to the trail, sniffing, growls low in their throat. Seconds later they looked up, their barking voices carrying over each other.

"Centaurs," "centaurs," "a bear," "more than one!," "satyr," "wolves, too, by the smell, nearly lost in the others,"

"And vultures, your Majesty," said a dryad who had slipped out of her tree near the dogs. Her eyes met Peter's and there was compassion and worry in them. "Queen Lucy was unconscious from a blow to the head, and the vultures carried her." Peter swallowed. "They tried to take King Edmund but he fought, and when they tried to knock him out he kicked his captors away. He was fighting to hard to hit without seriously harming him. They had to tie him and take him on their backs." She paused. "They took a moment to speak of where to meet tonight. My king, they are heading for Archenland, though I do not know why." Peter nodded, a short, jerky thank-you, and mounted in one smooth movement, preparing to follow the dogs down the trail. "Aslan go with you, my king," whispered in his ears like a breeze as the hunt began, and he echoed it. Ducking low, he rode.

And rode. The trail was easy to follow, with the scent in the dogs' noses and the trampling of the hooves. His horse followed the hunt and he clenched his hands and prayed.

Prayed, because he knew his siblings trusted him, looked to him for protection, for safety, for rescue. And as the High King, the only authority over him was one who could be reached by prayer. And he knew he would need help. This was too much like the Battle of Beruna, Edmund wounded, Lucy and Susan missing, and a task he wasn't sure he was up for.

Please, Aslan, send victory again.

They rode for hours, the sickening sense of _I don't know where they are, I don't know if they're ok, I think they're not_ twisting his stomach the whole ride. Sunset, darkness, and still the trail, the scent hotter and hotter as the dogs lagged but gamely ran on. Ran for the Queen who played and laughed and loved them, for the King who had created a place just for them at Cair Paravel ("They'll be very useful to have around, Peter, really"). For the sovereigns Aslan had given them.

For the High King riding behind them, Peter hoped, wishing again he knew he was worthy of this.

Because two of his siblings were missing and it didn't feel like it. He hoped someone had told Susan. And his heart felt sick for her, too.

Dark. No moon yet; just a few stars. Suddenly the pack stopped, and his horse reared; he kept his seat and rode it down.

"Tailseon?" he called the lead hound.

"We think they live here, your Majesty," a soft growl came back. "The scents are old, new, everywhere." A yelp of agreement sounded but was hushed at Tailseon's growl. A warning hand was placed on Peter's arm.

"It is too dark to scout." Groundhoof's voice was low, deep, and held a faint warning. "And we can't attempt a rescue without knowing what we're facing, your Majesty." Peter swallowed. It was madness, utter madness, to attack an unknown enemy on his home ground when he probably knows you're coming. But it was _Lucy and Edmund._

"If they took them alive, your Majesty, it isn't likely they'll kill them tonight. They took them for a purpose."

The hand had not removed itself from his arm. Peter nodded, realised it could not be seen in the dark, and released his breath. "I know, Groundhoof, I know." He looked forward, aching to move. But he was commander, not just a soldier responsible for his life and nothing else. "Tailseon, send a few of your own to find us a safe place to stay, with only cold scents," he whispered, trusting to the dog's ears to hear him. A quick whine, and there was a rustle up ahead, then silence again.

They waited. But not for long; the dogs came back swiftly, and led the group to a clearing, perhaps half an hour away. They circled the middle, set up sentries, and readied for sleep.

Several hours later, Peter woke up, jerking upright, his hand on his sword. The sentries were growling, low and almost silent, an alarm that roused everyone in the clearing. Quiet sounds of metal clanging sounded as everyone drew their swords; then they waited again, Peter breathing deep and quiet.

Then all the dogs on one side of the clearing sat. Sat, noses up and...tails wagging? The group warily sheathed their swords at the dogs' signal, but before Peter could ask what happened, he heard a cool, familiar voice saying, "Did you forget something?" And Susan walked into the clearing.

Not alone, of course. Her horse walked behind her; beside her was the dog that stayed with her in the palace to run her messages, one with the best nose for finding people. She also brought another squad of soldiers, panthers, cheetahs, the Beavers, fauns, and all those who could not run fast for hours. She walked to where Peter was standing and hugged him before he could say a word, holding him there with his head near her ear.

She always was a diplomat.

"Su, you can't be here." He whispered it, and the Narnians around them shuffled away a few steps to give them privacy.

"They're my siblings too, Peter. I'm staying." She let him go before they could argue, and he looked at her face and sighed. It was set, as stern as she ever was, and defiant. And a little scared; she never had liked battles. He took her hand and helped her to sit down, then turned to the soldiers she brought. He paused.

She brought the Panthers. He walked over to them swiftly, the family of four who lived at Cair Paravel, kneeling to be closer to their faces. Though he was over them, he knew what he asked of them was dangerous, and he wanted to ask them what he needed so badly. "My cousins, whom Aslan gifted with the ability to see at night, will you go with one of the dogs and scout out the home of our enemies?" Their eyes gleamed in the dark, and he heard their low purs. Tailseon went with them, the four cats vanishing without a sound, and he went back to his sister, telling her all that they knew so far.

Except that Lucy had been carried by Vultures. His own heart still ached with that thought. Once they were safe, Susan would coax out his nightmares, or Edmund, or Lucy, but not till all of them were safe.

The telling did not take much time; and then they waited again, Susan sitting on the ground in her cloak, Peter occasionally loosening his sword. A habit Groundhoof for once did not call him on as the centaur hovered in absolute stillness over their heads. Peter almost wished he would, it would give them something to do.

"Your Majesty," sounded softly by his ear, and he bit his lip to stop from yelling. Susan was already on her feet; next to them was one of the Panthers, Mawrit. Peter controlled his breathing, controlling his voice, and he saw Groundhoof nod his approval from over them.

"Report," Peter said just as softly, when he could speak with control.

"It's a cave system, King Peter, running through the mountains. The entrances have all been caved in, except for one; then the caves have been connected. But they forgot an entrance, or didn't care for it, on one of the peaks. My brothers and sister are still inside; there is a small army there, and an exit on the Archenland side."

"How large an army?" Groundfoot's voice was as quiet as a centaur's could get.

"Over forty soldiers, my captain." Mawrit's glowing eyes turned back to Peter. "And most of them are celebrating in the largest cave. But your brother and sister are bound in a small cave with five guards, my prince; and only two exits are guarded. The third, at the peak, is not. But it is only small enough for fauns, dogs, cats, and beavers, my King, not centaurs." Peter took a breathe, standing. He looked towards Groundfoot. "We'll try this," he said quietly. Groundfoot frowned but acquiesced at the King's tone. "Give us two hours. If we're not back, cause a distraction on both exits." The centaur bowed from the waist, and turned to gather his own. Peter unsheathed his sword with a deliberate loud clang, gathering the attention of the rest. "We move."

OOOOO

(1) _The Horse and His Boy_, p. 201  
(2) From the maps I looked up, Archenland is southwest of Cair Paravel.


	3. 2 The Rescue

**Chapter Two: The Rescue**

**A/N: I changed the rating on this to be a little higher, because there is fighting, and fighting is bloody. In a perfect world there wouldn't be any, but even Narnia isn't a perfect world.**

Disclaimer: Written for practice writing action stories (and _hopefully_ others' enjoyment) and not for profit, because it isn't mine to profit from.

OOOOO

Mawrit was silent, invisible in the dark except for the times he turned and waited, eyes glowing. He led the king, queen, and footsoldiers to the mountain and up an almost-path towards the peak. Peter had sheathed his sword, climbing with hands as well as feet as the mountain grew steeper. He hated this; going slowly so he didn't end up gasping for breath for all to hear, but itching to finish, to be at the top, to _find them_. Susan was silent just below him; her grace served her well, even when climbing, bow on her back to be out of the way. In front of them were three cats (the cheetahs and Mawrit), behind them were the sixteen fauns and four beavers. Twenty-five soldiers, against forty. Twenty-seven, if—_when_, Peter told himself, _when_—they rescued Edmund and Lucy.

As long as his siblings hadn't been hurt too much to fight.

Sometimes thinking like a commander was horrible. Necessary, but horrible.

Lift another hand; set it down gently, searching in the dark for a hold. Flinch back from the sharp edge of a rock; there, something to grab. Lift up. Search in the dark for a new handhold. He could smell the dirt in the dark. The new moon helped hide them, but it made things so much more difficult.

It took them two hours, the night passing. He knew it would take the centaurs about an hour longer to reach the Archeland exit; they could go by a pass and make better time, but they had to circle back on the other side.

It would give the soldiers at the top a time to rest, regroup, he knew, but as he pulled himself up that last stretch he sent a prayer to Aslan for patience. Lucy and Edmund were so close. Aslan, let them be unhurt.

The other panthers were waiting, tails twitching in the starlight wasn't hindered by the forest. Peter sat farthest from the edge, giving the others room to come up. Susan first, spilling onto the flat space. Peter turned to check the tunnel once he saw her safe. It was a dark hole, barely large enough for me, several meters away; the peak leveled out before going up again. The fauns came after her, many breathing hard, but quietly. Groundhoof's training was worth it, if it made it the rescue possible.

Susan, wordless, slung her bow around from the back and tested it, the faint _twang_ of the string barely audible. She spilled her arrows into her hand next, running her fingers over them, checking them for breaks. Finished, she looked up. "Is the waiting always this hard?" she whispered.

Peter thought back, to the waiting before Beruna, to the ambush he'd led for the largest remnant of the witch's army and the hours in the bushes, to the time he knew his group were being hunted and had to wait for them to catch up. They'd all been awful - fighting still made his stomach clench, and the waiting for the blood, screams, and death was worse. But Peter remembered another moment, too. At Beruna, when he'd turned just in time to see Edmund fall. "Yes," Peter whispered back, "but there are worse moments. Courage, Su. Groundhoof told me once waiting gives us time to pray. Aslan has authority over every battle."

Her breathe went in and out, and Peter felt some of her tension ease at the reminder that this was Aslan's battle. "We have a saying in the castle; Aslan direct our day. Here, Aslan direct our battle," she said softly. Peter nodded, and she leaned against his shoulder. It was a comfort for both of them to know that one sibling, at least, was safe. Peter prayed Aslan would keep Susan so through the night.

They passed the rest of the time in silence. Peter kept my eyes on the new moon, judging time by its position. Finally Peter stood, and Susan slung her bow on her back and stood as well. Around them were the small, quiet noises of the fauns getting ready; the beavers were behind them. "Mawrit, take the Cats first. I will follow; then the Fauns, then you, Beavers. Susan, bring up the rear, and if it comes to battle, find a high place out of reach and take out as many as you can with arrows. Beavers, I want you checking for ways to bring passages down - preferably not on us - to close us off from pursuit, if need be. But only if we have a clear way out. See if you can chew down the supports for the cave system. Each of you chose a Faun as a partner; that partner's job is to keep you alive. Cats, you'll be our scouts. Warn us if you hear or scent anyone getting close. Everyone understand?" The king heard a quiet chorus of "Yes, sire," and added, "Mawrit, how far down, and how steep is this tunnel?"

"You'll probably slide the first part of the way, maybe a third of the way down the mountain" said the cat cooly, balancing perfectly on his feet. "But it ends in an empty cave, a small one, and from there we can walk."

Peter took one more look at the tunnel, shifting his sheathed sword so it wouldn't get tangled in the slide. "Lead on," he commanded in a whisper. Finally, finally, they could move.

The cats bounded into the tunnel with a soundless leap. He heaved himself up to the entrance, at waist height, and swung his legs under him so he'd slide that way first. The cats were right, it was steep, about as steep as a steeple roof in the place he remembered. He caught himself thinking that Lucy would have loved it. He was going to go get her.

Inside was completely dark. They couldn't risk light, and Peter could see nothing within a few meters, feeling his way forward and down by touch alone. The slide was rough. Peter guessed the water had run down the tunnel, making it bigger over time, but that meant it washed away the dirt and left all the rocks. Half of it was scrambling, scooting himself forward; the other half were short drops that ended abruptly against cave walls. It was louder than he liked, with the echoes of whispered pain and moving pebbles, but the invisible Cats were silent, and he hoped that meant there was no one waiting for them.

It took them perhaps fifteen minutes, he estimated by counting; it felt much longer. When the floor leveled off and stayed level, he got to his knees so he could crawl; the tunnel was still too short to stand. But it made following it through any turns easy; just reach for the empty space. Forward, forward, with dirt finally under his hands, softer than the tunnel coming down. This must be where the water pooled.

"Light a torch, sire," rumbled a low voice, and he almost yelled. Panting, he reached to the flint he'd taken from his horse's saddlebags, trying to slow his heartbeat and breathing. Behind him he heard the fauns soft hoofbeats, then the small pattering feet of the beavers coming closer.

"Here," said a quiet voice behind him; he struck the flint and saw Susan holding out a torch she'd put in her quiver. He lit it, took it from her, and looked around.

The cave was small, and the hole they'd come out of had been around a turn, almost invisible from the inside. He lit two more torches other fauns held, and they fell in near the middle and end of the group. He moved forward, towards the entrance where the cave got smaller again. Behind him he could hear the others fall in. The cats were near the entrance, the cheetahs at the back, completely still till he was almost even; they looked lethal, guardians of the night with two suns at the back in the flickering light of the torch. They turned and led the way once he reached the entrance.

That cave led to another, a long one, wide enough for three or four to walk together, still slanted down. Peter kept one eye forward and another on the cats, his hand ready on his sword hilt. Defeating this army would be easier if they had no hostages to worry about; the rescue first, and the rescue would be easier if they remained undiscovered.

The long cave took a sharp dive down; if it had been a river it would have looked like a waterfall. But another cave branched off, and the cats turned there; small, and the walls looked like they had been dug out with claws. The cats slipped in easily; Peter had to turn sideways at times, torch first, careful not to brush it against the wall, hoping he didn't have to draw his sword. That cave didn't last long, though it widened at the end. The cats stopped in the shadow of its walls, and he saw why. There was light ahead.

He smothered his torch on the wall quickly; but the cats' fur was lying flat, and they didn't seem alarmed. Slowly, he made his way forward.

Mawrit's mate, Kelna, was nearest him. Smaller, lighter, and as unblinking as her beloved, she turned her head, tickling his cheek with her fur.

"One guard, your majesty. Bored, and he has not heard us, but he's at the end and we have to get past him." She licked her paw delicately. "We can pass unseen; shall we take care of him?"

Peter wiped his forehead and tried to think. "Is he in armor?" The panther nodded, and he frowned. Kelna was deadly, he'd seen her hunt, and Mawrit could handle several of the guards all on his own without a tremble in his whiskers, but unless the cats took out the guard's voice he might still have a chance to cry out. He looked back at Kelna. "Go get Queen Susan," he whispered. The panther was gone in an instant. It took Susan some moments to make her way up the narrow cave past the rest, but Peter waited. She was Narnia's finest archer, and he would wait rather than take a risk. A few minutes later she was crouched beside him and the panthers. He looked at Mawrit and whispered, "Give her the guard's position."

Mawrit bounded forward, one leap, two, and froze, listening. Everything was silent. The cat leaned forward, all four paws still in place, till his head poked beyond the wall. A few moments; he drew it back, and his turn and leap was a single, fluid movement too fast to follow. "Helmet, chain mail covering his arms, as far to the left as the length of the great hall at Cair, leaning against the wall with arms folded, watching the cave in the other direction." Peter glanced at Susan; her face was set, determined, and she slowly, quietly, carefully, drew her bow off her back again and placed one arrow on the string, the bow still loose. She stood, eyes on the light, the entrance.

Peter looked at Kelna and nodded to the Queen; Kelna rose and walked with her. Peter ached to go forward too, but the more humans, the more noise, and the greater chance the guard would turn. Susan paused at the entrance, against the wall, and drew the arrow and string back. She stepped out in a single movement of grace, bow drawn, sighted for a millisecond, and fired. Peter heard a cut off choke, a thump, and Susan released her bow. He took a breath and moved forward, touching her arm with a whispered "Well done." Her face was white and pain in her eyes, but she nodded. Peter looked down the hall; the guard was lying on the floor. They moved past him, the cats leading once again, staying to the side of the cave and the shadows. Once two hags came cackling down the corridor, food in hand, and the panthers were on them before the group could be seen. Once they turned into another hallway to find a ghoul at the end, licking its fingers; Susan shot it before it could do more than snarl. But the caves seemed strangely empty, and Peter's stomach twisted. Was this an Aslan sent blessing? Something seemed wrong.

But Lucy and Edmund were ahead, and Peter didn't have a choice but to forge on. They'd probably been moving for half an hour since they reached the flat cave and lit the torches.

The cats stopped again, and Kelna stepped daintily back to him and Susan, looking up with a panther's dark face. "Their majesties are held just beyond this, King Peter. But there's five ogres between us and them."

Peter hesitated; five was a lot to take out soundlessly. "Are there any other routes out of that cave?" Susan asked calmly, reaching back quietly for another arrow.

"There's a short cave, carved out, between us and the cave with the ogres. Their majesties are in an alcove in that cave, with iron bars keeping them in. Or the ogres out; Queen Lucy was not impressed with their captors, the last time we were here, and they weren't getting closer to her than they had to. Or King Edmund. There's one more way out of the cave, but as far as we could explore, it leads to nearly the outside of the mountain before curving back around. If they run that way we will outrun them, and then, well, it's been a while since my mate and I got to hunt together." Kelna grinned, the panther grin that still sent chills down Peter's spine. He nodded, and gestured the true Narnians forward so he could whisper to them.

"Cats first; get to the other exit if you can. Two of you," pointing to the fauns, "with me. Susan, you enter behind us, and take as many of the ogres as you can before we get there. Beavers, stay near the entrance; if there's wood there, see if you can collapse it if you hear reinforcements coming." He looked around; they nodded their understanding. "Aslan be with us, and bless our battle." He turned back towards the entrance, two fauns coming to his side, Susan falling behind them. The cats slunk forward and were gone, the cheetah's staying behind. He drew his sword, praying as he did what he always asked: let this do good and never ill. Then through the cave, the cats already invisible in the dark hallway between the two.

He let his eyes adjust to the light beyond for a just a moment, then ran through, five big, ugly monsters with fat little heads turning at the sound of his footsteps. He heard "Peter!" from his right, with a "Peter!" in Lucy's voice a moment later, and then a whistle of an arrow and one ogre fell, an arrow in his eyes; a second arrow followed a moment later, and the ogre closest to the other door fell two. Then Peter was close enough to fight.

And he slashed, first, at the ogre who had grinned and lifted its wooden club, half the size he was, and swung. He turned his sword away and ducked under, then thrust, and the ogre dropped the club, howling, as he pierced its muscled arm. The faun beside him finished that ogre off as he turned towards the other one that swung at his stomach. Move back, bend, out of the way, turn again, twist the sword, and the ogre fell, it's leg bleeding; step over it, thrust the sword _down_, four out of five dead, the fifth? The fauns had already taken it down. He looked around, automatically cleaning his sword on the ogre at the same time; one faun was holding his arm and grimacing, but everyone else was unharmed, including Susan. He turned towards where he'd heard the voices.

Iron bars ran floor the cave ceiling, a door of iron bars locked in the middle of the bars, hands clasped around them, were both of Narnia's missing rulers. He strode forward, looking them over at the same time, Susan already running forward from the wall. Edmund was pale but standing straight, a smile in his eyes at the sight of his siblings, and Lucy was already calling their names in a soft, fluting voice. "Peter! Susan!" Peter reached over and touched both their hands, a gentle touch; Susan reaching through the bars to wipe Lucy's hair out of her face, gentle probing down at a cut running the width of her cheek. Peter looked at it and shuddered; probably from a vulture's claws.

"We're all right," Edmund said, wriggling his fingers out from under Peter's to clasp his hand. "But something's wrong, Peter, it's almost like we were bait. We _have_ to get out of here." Mawrit's cousin - Peter thought, anyway, he wasn't clear - was examining the lock. He reared back, placing one paw on the bars so he stood on his hind legs, and unsheathed his claws and stuck one in. He turned it, trying once, twice, the four rulers turning to look at him with a little bit of awe. A moment later the lock clanged, and the panther drew his claw back, the door coming open with it. The younger siblings tore hands away from the others and ran to the door and out, Peter and Susan catching them in a four-way hug as soon as they came out. Peter let it last a moment, just a moment, to thank Aslan and feel that they really were ok, before letting go. "Mawrit, lead us back? I agree with Edmund, something's-" A patter of small paws stopped him, a patter followed by a rumbling, and the beavers came scurrying into the cave. "The army!" they shrieked in chorus. "Just behind us, and the cave won't collapse the whole way!" Peter turned to Mawrit; the panther nodded towards the cave behind him, and the army fell behind the four as they moved forward, guarding them from the rear.

"Aslan, lead us out," Peter heard muttered behind him in Edmund's voice, and he heartily agreed. Get them out, then come back and destroy everyone who'd dared to imprison Edmund and make Lucy bleed. Sword still drawn, he moved forward, past the panthers and cheetahs, taking point now that they didn't need stealth. Susan stayed at the rear, Edmund guarding her, to take down anyone who got to close, and the group headed as swiftly as they could for the exit, Mawrit growling directions in Peter's ear as they followed the long, long, _long_ cave. There was still no one, and Peter took a moment to thank Aslan for that as they stopped, resting against the wall to ease the stitch in his side. Thirty seconds, enough to breathe deeply, then they were off again, following the cave with its random torches in the walls, long, twice Peter's height, and heading mostly straight.

Straight, for the rest of their run and two more breathing breaks, until suddenly it turned. Peter paused to gather any stragglers (Lucy and the four beavers had short legs and were slower). They turned the corner and he breathed out; more empty cave. The run began again, a jog this time, the four rulers at the front, grouped together. Peter wanted them close. The cave branched up ahead, and Peter remembered Mawrit telling him to take the right-hand fork, one with two torches on either side of the beginning. Two more caves and they'd be out, on Archeland side, but with a group of centaurs. Two more and they'd be safe. He grabbed Lucy's hand; Edmund and Susan were right behind him. Through the entrance, tripping suddenly over a rope at ankle level, what? -

And he heard a rumbling, right overhead, and dived forward, pulling Lucy along. He heard Edmund and Susan hit the ground beside him, along with a grunt of pain from a cheetah, then another - the others had been too slow. Peter watched in horror as the cave ceiling came down, cutting off the rest of the army. He looked forward; there, waiting, was the rest of the rebelling army, hags, specters, ogres, ghouls, cruels, people of the toadstools, and a minotaur at the front, battle axe in hand (1). Peter tried to push himself up and grab his sword, and the minotaur roared, rocks resetting as the echoes faded. Peter flinched.

"I wouldn't do that, little king." His voice was worse than the roar, sneering, condescending, gravelly and low. His bull's head nodded to his side; a few satyrs held bows, drawn - and pointed at his siblings. The minotaur stepped forward. "Let go of your sword, little king," he said, and Peter glared but took his hand off it. "Stand up." Peter did, pulling Lucy up and putting her behind him; stepping forward to be in front of Edmund and Susan as well. Susan was helping Edmund up; he swayed, and his arm was bent at stomach-jolting angle. Susan ripped her archer's glove off; Peter stopped paying attention as the minotaur walked forward, looming over them. He looked at Peter, just looked, with greedy, dark eyes and an unpleasant smile. "Take them to my throne room," he said finally, and turned away as several of his army took the sovereigns by their arms, forcing them to kneel. The cold, pinching, cruel hands pulled at him and his siblings, binding their hands behind their backs with snarls and growls. The minotaur stopped and looked over his shoulder. "The rest of you, go block up the other exit to that cave. No one gets out on either side." Peter, just before he was hauled to his feet, closed his eyes. Aslan help them. They were all captives now.

OOOOO

(1) I took the list of evil creatures from LWW p. 132. I'm hoping to do something with the people of the toadstools in the next chapter, because I'm wondering what on earth they're like. I hear the fairy Merryweather in my head going "a fat old hoptoad," and I think they'd be something like that.

Response to RiteOfSpringIS: Thank you so much for your review, and the compliments! I don't usually try to write action, so I'm so glad you enjoyed it! May your Easter be filled with the presence of God.


	4. 3 The Choice

**Chapter Three: The Choice**

Disclaimer: Depending on the book you have, you'll find the copyright to be dated 1950, almost forty years before I was born. I'm not a time traveler, so it's clearly not my world.

The throne room was a large, dismal cave, filled with soldiers of the types Peter had been hunting. At one end was the entrance; from there, the four were dragged to the other end, where a grim throne was set next to a single lamp (1). Peter felt Edmund shudder beside him and glanced over; his eyes were fastened on the throne, and beside him Lucy and Susan were scowling at it. Peter wondered, suddenly, what the White Witch's throne had looked like. He'd never seen it, though the other three had.

Whatever it looked like, he was sure a man with a brown bull's head had never sat on it. But here the minotaur who had given orders was enthroned, leaning on one side, an axe-head fixed on a spear resting on the floor in his other hand. He was looking straight at Peter, his black eyes unblinking and hard.

"I am the Mighty Grendelthorn, leader of the former Queen's army in Archenland." Peter heard Edmund shift and he frowned; he had thought Archenland remained relatively free, though not free from fear.

Peter kept his voice firm, even. Even bound, he was Aslan's king. "What do you want with Narnia and her rulers, Grendelthorn?"

"I want them gone," the growl was soft, deadly. "We had broken through to Archenland at last. The path lay open. The army was prepared. A week remained, and then we would have set on them. And I, I would have been the queen's regent, ruling for her. Temporarily at least." His eyes flicked to the back of the cave they'd entered through. "The caves would have been easy to bring down. She could not send an army, and she could not come herself without losing her winter. My throne had been sitting ready for years. For years, I patiently crafted tunnel and army, making them mine. I knew them. She did not. Given a few years, I would have thrown off her rule, collapsed the caves, and made Archenland mine." His eyes turned back to Peter, glittering. "But then you came, little king, and a week before we swept into Archeland, the White Witch recalled her army to fight. She _lost_, cursed be Aslan's name! And took with her most of my army; only the ones completely loyal to me remain." His eyes passed over the ones in the cave, counting, measuring, longing and greedy. "Not enough for Archenland. Not enough to make me king. But maybe," he rose to his full height, hand clenching on the spear-handle, "enough for Narnia. If I cannot have Archenland, I will have Narnia. And you, little king, little-king-that-was, will do more to get it for me than all my army." He roared, the sound echoing to a painful cacophony, "Kneel! KNEEL!"

Hands pulled on Peter's arms, hooves kicked his knees, and he fell forward, almost on his face, but the gripping hands held him bruisingly tight, pulling him back up on his knees. Peter heard his siblings calling his name, but they were lost when the minotaur roared "SILENCE!" As the echoes died, so did the voices. Peter kept his eyes on his enemy, praying for level and calm. And that Aslan would somehow save his siblings, and the soldiers in Grendelthorn's caves. Grendelthorn walked closer, towering over Peter, and reached down to force his head back. "Look at you, little boy. A little boy with no power, on your knees. A true king never kneels."

Peter forced a breath in through his bent-back throat. "Only those who kneel truly understand authority," he said quietly. "No being can be a king without understanding he must kneel. He must put himself under someone greater. Otherwise all he has is his own strength."

The minotaur grabbed his hair and pulled him off the ground by it. "_My_ strength is enough to rule Narnia _without_ ruling," he snarled. He let go, and Peter fell again; other hands, one with claws digging into his arm, pulled him upright once again; once again on his knees. "TOADSTOOLS!" Grendelthorn roared, and stepped back.

From behind Peter came strange wet hopping noises, small splashes of wet feet on dirt. They got closer and closer, and from the feet and hooves around him emerged three slimy, frog-like creatures, with large white eyes and red with white polka dot skin; behind them were similar creatures with brown skin and black streaks, with the same white eyes. They hopped themselves into a circle around Narnia's kneeling king, polka-dot frogs facing him from the front and two sides, and the other toadstools facing out, in-between the red-and-white ones.

Peter looked at them. For the first time since they were captured, he felt tempted to laugh. What were they supposed to do?

As if they were answering, all of them opened their mouths. The mouths had been nearly invisible when closed; open, they circled two-thirds of the creatures' heads, opening wide enough for Peter's fist to enter. (Not that he felt like touching them.) They all sighed out at once, and a thick, yellow fog spilled around Peter, a few inches above the ground. They took deep breathe in, and breathed out again. The fog rose.

"Did you know that Narnian kings are marked?" Peter looked from the toadstool people to the Grendelthorn, back on his grimy stone throne, then back at the rising yellow mist. "It's said that something in their face and air contain something no true Narnian can mistake, something that calls the allegiance of all the king meets (2). If I had it, Narnia would be mine. And only the High King could give it to me. But how to convince you - and make you keep your word?" He smiled, a baring of teeth Peter faced resolutely, now ignoring the yellow cloud that was above his elbows. "Toadstools. They have this strange ability; drink the slime that comes off them and you see visions; eat of their flesh and you die; inhale the cloud of their breath, and you cannot lie. It was most useful in finding the White Witch's spies." The cloud was shoulder level, and Peter heard grunts behind him and a snarl of pain; his siblings must be fighting. "So, little king, little king kneeling, I will give you a choice. Take a deep breath in and swear Narnia to me—making me Aslan appointed, for He gave authority to you to set kings on Narnia's throne."

"Peter, don't!" It was Lucy's voice, valiant, passionate, but it cut off a moment later. A ghoul's hand grabbed Peter's neck.

"Don't, Peter," came Edmund's voice, quiet and low, just as firm. "It's _Narnia_." Shuffling steps sounded; Peter tried to glance over his shoulder, his siblings a little behind him, but that dead-cold hand twisted his neck till he was looking forward again, back at the throne.

"Give me Narnia," growled Grendelthorn, loud and fierce, "or watch your siblings die." Peter wrenched forward, free of the hands, turning through the mist high enough to rim his mouth-and saw his siblings in the arms of ogres, two holding each arm. In front of the three were three hags, grinning beneath their ragged hair, and fingering shining daggers in their hands; the one in front of Lucy lifted her dagger to the Queen's throat. Lucy went still.

"Make him inhale," came the growl behind him, and a hand punched his back; another his stomach, and he bent over with a gasp, choking on the yellow mist. It tasted of decaying mushrooms, left a film in his mouth, and made something tighten around his lungs. He closed his mouth, cutting off his breathing; but already he could feel a numbness spreading in his limbs, and his heart racing. He pulled himself back straight; desperate to see his siblings.

All three of them had the hags' daggers were at his siblings throats; above the ogres' hands now clasped over their mouths, all of his siblings' eyes were fixed on him. Lucy's had tears.

"I'm all right," he told them raggedly, trying to breathe as little as possible.

"You are." The growl was not reassuring. "They will not be." A hand grabbed Peter's head again, turning him back to the throne. The minotaur was intent, grinning at what he saw. "Your choice, boy. Will you watch your siblings die? Or secede Narnia to me?"

Peter looked at them again, the three Aslan placed under him in Narnia. The three he loved, his brother and sisters.

But he was kneeling. Kneeling, as he had when he had sworn to rule Narnia. He'd been kneeling when he swore to obey Aslan_ before all else_.

He looked back at Grendelthorn. He spoke the truth. "I will not. I _cannot_. I swore myself to Aslan, and I cannot break that authority."

Grendelthorn considered him, then looked to his hags. "Kill the eldest queen," he commanded.

The hag cackled, Peter screaming "No!" and then she buried her dagger in Susan's chest, the ogre letting her go. Susan screamed, closing her eyes; then fell.

Peter was moving before he realised it, through the mist, knocking over his guards and running to her. He caught her shoulders before her head hit the ground, pulling her onto his knees. She looked at him, eyes flickering open. "For Narnia," she whispered. "For Aslan." And she went still.

"No, Aslan, no," Peter choked, frantically wiping her face. She breathed but didn't stir.

"Aslan," Peter whispered, burying his head on top of hers. "Aslan, please."

A roar sounded through the cavern, louder than the minotaur's, richer, deeper, fiercer, wilder. The roar of Aslan, shaking the caves. Peter looked up; it was followed by the sound of hooves, and from the entrance rushed the squads of centaurs, Groundhoof in their lead, running through the unprepared soldiers, cutting them down. Peter lunged, grabbing the nearest ogre's sword and cutting him down with it. The instant later he cut down the one holding Edmund, then Lucy. The two took their own weapons from the bodies and rushed to Peter and Susan.

"Lucy, the cordial!" Peter's voice was desperate, glancing at the youngest. She looked at him, eyes wide, and shook her head while touching her empty neck. They must have taken it. Peter had only a moment to pray, before he heard the growl behind him and turned. Grendelthorn was swinging the axehead; he ducked under it, lunging forward; the minotaur stepped back. He stepped back too, eyeing him. Behind him he heard Edmund and Lucy crying, "For Aslan!" and he focused, knowing they had his back. One heavy hand clamped on his shoulder, forcing him to his knees and still; the minotaur's other arm raised his ax. Peter, looking up from his knees, clenched his sword and thrusted up, right into the minotaur. He dropped his axe and Peter's shoulder, falling, already dead. Peter turned; the centaurs had killed most of the soldiers; the rest'd surrendered.

Susan; he ran forward, back to where Lucy and Edmund crouched over their sister. Edmund's hands were holding a wad of bloody material, pressed carefully around the dagger. Lucy was calling Susan's name, hands on her cheeks, trying to get her to wake.

Peter took her hand, kneeling again. He shouldn't have let her come. He should told her to go back. He should have suspected a trap. Mistake after mistake; she shouldn't be dying for his mistakes. "Please, Aslan," he pleaded. "Please, You gave her to me. Please don't take her now. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't take her."

"Your majesty," said a quiet voice above them. Peter looked up; Thunderstorm the centaur stood over Lucy. One of his hands held Edmund's sword and Lucy's dagger; in the other dangled Lucy's cordial.

Lucy bolted upright, taking it, unscrewing it, and kneeling back down, poured a drop in Susan's mouth. Edmund's hands left the cloth and gripped the dagger hilt, pulling it back out, a "Please, Aslan" spilling from his lips. Susan gasped, opening her eyes, and Peter and Edmund grabbed her hands before she could touch the healing wound. For a moment they all sat there, panting; then three collapsed on their sister, Peter on the top of the pile. He took a moment to thank Aslan, to breathe, to realise they were all right, all of them were all right, then he looked up without letting go.

"Thunderstorm, please take a delegation of centaurs and follow this cave back till you reach a collapsed entrance, and dig it out. The rest of the Narnians are trapped there." Thunderstorm bowed and walked away.

"All right, Peter, your turn," Edmund murmured from underneath them. Peter opened his eyes again.

"What?"

"That yellow mist. You alright?"

Peter shrugged. "I probably still can't lie, but that's not really a problem. We're not wasting the cordial on something like that."

"Taking care of you is not a waste," Lucy informed him from Susan's side, her arms hugging her sister's waist.

Peter smiled, just a bit. "I'm fine, Lu. I just want to get you all home."

It took a couple more hours before they actually headed home. The centaurs on the Narnian side had brought the horses, but there weren't enough for the prisoners and the Narnians Susan had brought, so the whole group ended up walking. After digging the (thankfully unhurt) Narnians out, they left the caves - no one wanted to stay - and went back to the clearing where Peter and the others first waited to attack. They slept, taking turns to watch, and most of the next day was spent traveling. They arrived late at night, put things quickly in order, and went to bed.

Or tried to. Peter had trouble sleeping; he kept seeing Susan stabbed, falling. He didn't want to dream; his fears were all too vivid. Finally he got up and sat by the open window. Normally he'd be praying, but right now he had nothing to say. Thank you, he'd said uncounted times. I'm sorry, though he wasn't sure what for.

A knock on his door made him stir. "Come in," he called. It was Susan, still dressed, looking every inch Aslan's queen, a candle in her hand. She set it on the table and walked to the window to sit beside him.

"I heard you," she began quietly. "When you told me you were sorry. Peter, you know you weren't wrong." Peter looked away. "You were caught in a trap; that's what traps _do_. You brought me along, but that was my choice. You know Aslan has the right to our lives as well as yours, don't you?" Peter flinched, but nodded.

"I will need a few years to come to terms with that, I think," he admitted. Susan smiled.

"Aslan will bring you there," she said softly. "After all, He brought you victory and me back while you were kneeling, didn't He? I'm beginning to think we're strongest when we're on our knees." She patted Peter's hand. "Sleep now, Peter. Aslan's currently holding us." She picked up her candle and left. Peter looked out the window one more time. They still had work to do - the judging and sentencing of the remnants of Grendelthorn's army began tomorrow - but tonight, they were all home, all safe, and Aslan ruled. That was enough to let him sleep.

OOOOO

(1) That's all the description of Jadis's throne I could find in LWW  
(2) The beginning was taken almost verbatim from _The Silver Chair_, when Rilian emerges from the tunnel and his people see him for the first time in ten years.

Response to For Aslan: Thank you for reviewing! And for enjoying this story. I hope you enjoy the ending as well!

If you're curious (anyone), this was started by the following quote, which got me thinking about when we kneel, and why.[Shepherd's] Wife: "Come in, my lords, come in. Please mind your heads. I fear 'tis but a poor, lowly place."  
[King] Caspar: "No place is too lowly to kneel in." — Dorothy Sayers, _The Man Born to be King _p. 39


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